


Sephiroth at NYE 2020

by OWASephiroth



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Final Fantasy VII Remake - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Other, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OWASephiroth/pseuds/OWASephiroth
Summary: This is based on one roleplayer's depiction of Sephiroth from Final Fantasy VII (@OWASephiroth on Twitter).Note: this work had a beta and was revised twice over.
Kudos: 4





	Sephiroth at NYE 2020

* * *

Mᴇᴍᴇɴᴛᴏs

You were none  
and now you’re all;  
your worth will rise,  
the more I fall.

Like these mementos,  
I have stored,  
once were things—  
now so much more.

— 𝐿𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝐿𝑒𝑎𝑣

* * *

  
It was the last day of the year; New Year’s Eve, as the others called it. A day where it was typical to review the three hundred and thirty four days that had passed. A time for self-reflection and contemplation. A moment to come up with resolutions for the year ahead.   
  
As this last day was running out of its last hours, Sephiroth was sitting on the sofa, a metal box balanced on his lap and a cup of whiskey-laced coffee perched precariously on top of the box. He was alone in this apartment, a place he had called home for the past year. Tonight, however, would be the final time he would be in this place. He liked the space well enough, and it had served him well as a sanctuary in which he could seclude himself away from the rest of the world. It was small, tucked away in a nondescript corner, but enough.   
  
The living room was the embodiment of the the void and chaos within him, a space for rumination. Well, it was when he was not distracting himself with yet another way to organise his book collection. At the moment, they were arranged in a rainbow formation. The bedroom was the one place on the Planet where the voices in his head left him mostly alone. Especially when he burrowed under the weighted blankets, the voices sometimes went almost silent then. He always imagined it was the one area where the voices could sleep, too. The bathroom was the one he would miss the most, with that tub that had been customised to fit his height. It had been a bitch to order and install, but the expense was well worth it. Sephiroth probably spent more time floating in the tub than he did sleeping on the bed.

No one knew about this place save for a very tiny number, but apparently one too many were aware of it. The voices in his head had insisted and so, it was time to move out and on. He was here for just one more night, enough time to lament over what he had to give up. Again. There was something else, too. Sephiroth had sat in all the rooms in turn, drinking in all the details of this apartment, storing them away in his memory palace for future reference and reminiscing’s purposes.

He has devoted much time and effort into the method of loci in storing memories. He has become rather proficient at it, having dug wide and deep to expand his palace over a vast mental area. And at its core was where he preserved the memories that reminded Sephiroth of his humanity. Yet he could not deny that revisiting those memories often came up short on expectations. It was as if he was peering at them through an outdated television screen whose colour balance had been thrown off, and he has since misplaced the remote and was thus unable to make any adjustments to obtain better definition. It had perplexed him greatly when he first realised this, since he continued to be able to recall other memories with crystal clear clarity. The heat of the blood from his first kills of the war continued to sting on his cheek, but he had to squint to recall the exact shade of fire in the hair of the red-clad friend from work.  
  
He has initially accepted that certain memories simply had to degrade with the passage of time. That was, at least, until he realised that when he had a physical item to tie memories to, the latter could be recalled in vivid detail, with sharp colours and surround sound. The first memento was a copy of a play, slightly singed from some first class fun that went wrong, fished out from a lost and found box. Ever since the acquisition of the first, Sephiroth would go on to collect mementos just like a magpie would pick up shiny things, or like a dragon would hoard golden coins and jewels. One by one, they found their way to the metal box that was currently sitting on his lap.

Sephiroth did not make it a habit to peruse the contents of the box frequently. It was as if he believed there was a set number of times he could hold a memento in his hand and recall the memories tied to it, before the item lost its effectiveness and he would thereafter lose the memory for good. An unfounded and rather fanciful notion, perhaps. In any case, he was not going to tempt fate about something of this importance. That being said, the last day of the year was as good an occasion to open the box for a once over, wasn’t it? At least, he could peer at what had been accumulated over the current year — surely providence would grant him this small comfort, as he sat in the ruins of yet another place he could not call home.

Draining the coffee and setting the cup aside, he carefully rattled the metal box for a moment, just for the pleasure of hearing the sounds the mementos within made. Was there a word to describe the opposite of a death rattle? That would be how he would describe the sound the box was making then. Sephiroth carefully lifted the lid. 

A ticket for a kissing booth. A locket necklace, with an still-unread message curled within. A delicate piece of black lace. A lone glove, separated from its twin. A handful of Halloween candy. A single black feather, from another dimension. A mistletoe. A keepsake from someone chaotic. Another locket necklace, this one with a photograph nestled within. A letter extracted from something soft but heartless. An earring from which a single wing dangled. A silky tie of elegant midnight, just like the hair of its previous owner. And the latest and last addition for the year - a pocket square with a dash of red, wrapped around a silver of lamentta tinsel that was as delicate as Sephiroth’s precarious hope for a future that would remain in his control.

He knew one day these mementos would in all likelihood go up in flames, too. At the very least, he would not have use of them when he ascended to the next phrase of his being. He would have to leave them all behind, for better or for worse. But until that day, Sephiroth was determined to be human, still. And all of these mementos in this metal box constituted proof that he was, at one point in time, flesh and blood with the capacity of making, or at least attempting to make, very human connections. A mortal who could make memories worth remembering, too.

He shut the metal box at the stroke of midnight; it was officially a new year, and his time here was at its end. The box was the only thing he would be bringing out of this apartment; the measure of his humanity. Sephiroth stood in the threshold for one last lingering look, recalling how the apartment had looked like the first day he acquired. None of that mattered now, on this last day. He sighed as he lifted his left hand. A snake of flames uncoiled from his fist and slithered onto the ground, hissing. Sephiroth stepped out and closed the door behind him, not wanting to see the fire consume the place he had painstaking put together but now had to abandon. As he made his way down the stairwell and to his motorcycle in the basement, accompanied only by the soft tinkling of the mementos, he wondered what the next year would bring, and what other items he might add to the box.

* * *


End file.
